


by shreds, by storm clouds

by kindclaws



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Bellamy "is this a date?" Blake, Clarke "what do you mean you've never built a boat" Griffin, F/M, Future Fic, King "I hate that you actually like this present" Roan, Mutual Pining, canonverse, the delinquents enter a boat race
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-20
Updated: 2016-12-20
Packaged: 2018-09-10 17:37:36
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,940
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8926180
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kindclaws/pseuds/kindclaws
Summary: Clarke leans over in her saddle, far enough that his hand automatically reaches out to balance her, and their fingers tangle in the space in-between them. She smiles at him over their joined hands. Sunlight falls on her face again and her eyes squint in the golden glow. It lasts barely a heartbeat, a single moment that Bellamy wants to pour into amber and preserve forever. Then Clarke's horse falls out of step, pulling their hands apart, and her face is cast in shade once more. 
They talk about almost everything. But not about each other, not together. 'Us' is a word they're still waiting to deserve.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [bellamysfern (VivereLibri)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/VivereLibri/gifts).



> Happy holidays, bellamysfern! You once mentioned on your blog that you love seeing OTPs run into hugs and spin each other around. Believe me, I tried so hard to work it in and somehow kept coming back to this. I hope the happy ending is similarly satisfactory and you have an amazing winter! :)

 

 

 

Even the horses can tell they're almost to the end of the journey. Bellamy's not sure how they know, given that the forest they've been riding through for three days now looks the same to him in every direction, with little variation as the hours pass. Perhaps they can smell it - some scent of woodsmoke and people carried on the wind, too faint for his nose.

He reaches forward and rubs an absent-minded circle into his mare's long neck and receives a snort in acknowledgement. He never thought he'd warm to the idea of horses - _still_ hasn't warmed to the strain that three days of riding puts on his thighs - but he has grown fond of the bad-tempered mare that Roan gave him two years ago for a trip up North to shut down a reactor in Azgeda territory. Technically, Sköll wasn't a _gift_ from the Ice Nation King, but a temporary peace offering made permanent by spite. When they'd returned from the reactor up North, Roan had smuggly asked Bellamy how he liked riding the most spirited horse his people had to offer, and Bellamy had decided to retaliate by profusing his undying appreciation for the mare Roan had _oh so generously given to Arkadia_. Roan had little choice but to accept he'd lost that battle and let Bellamy keep the horse - but they've stumbled into a downward spiral of passive-aggressive gift offering ever since. Miller thinks it's hilarious, so Bellamy puts very little effort into ending the nonsense.

Besides. She's growing on him.

A shout from ahead draws his attention back to the current journey. Bellamy scans over the heads of their delegation, noting Miller's beanie bobbing up and down in the vanguard, Monty's shock of dark hair not far behind, Harper flashing through the trees to the side. Bellamy relaxes as soon as he figures out they're just shouting directions around a rocky outcropping that Raven's rover will have a hard time going over.

As the tension melts from his shoulders, his eyes settle, as always, on the back of Clarke's head. Once upon a time Bellamy thinks she would have taken the lead of the group, up ahead with Miller, but the older they grow the more she seems to have faded, the more she quietly falls into step in the middle of the pack. He's not sure she would have even come on this trip if he hadn't suggested it the night after an argument with Abby. It was spite, more than curiosity, that had driven Clarke to say yes when she normally avoided leaving Arkadia. Bellamy can hardly fault her for it - not when he keeps fanning the flames of his and Roan's rivalry. They are all creatures of spite. They may as well own it.

Part of him hoped, however vainly, that getting her out of the camp would mean she'd look up and enjoy the scenery instead of staring down at her horse's saddle. They're all tired and frustrated after the long trip, but even Bellamy can take a moment to appreciate the smell of pine, the soft birdsong in the canopy overhead, the afternoon sun that dapples their path and lights Clarke's blonde hair like a firebrand. He wanted to see that old gleam she used to get in her eyes when she saw something beautiful.

Bellamy steels his nerves and nudges Sköll forward. She's more than willing to take up the challenge, trotting down another path through the trees to avoid the column of travellers up ahead. He can tell she's not pleased when he directs her to slow down and rejoin Arkadia's delegation once they're aligned with Clarke. She looks up and gives him a tired smile as they fall into step next to each other.

"You looked like you were nodding off in the saddle," Bellamy says, and this is apparently the wrong thing to say, because Clarke grimaces and looks back down.

"Sorry," she says, rubbing hard at her eyes. "I promise I won't pass out on you guys, don't worry."

There are dark circles under them, faintly purple against the pallor of her skin. Bellamy knows she stayed up late last night with one of the guards who got food poisoning from an undercooked rabbit and spent several hours vomiting in the bushes near camp. He also knows you don't get circles like that from a single night of broken sleep. It's been a while since she took time for herself.

"I didn't point it out to make you feel bad," Bellamy mutters. "I'm just - _Clarke_. You should have said something - we can make room in the rover, you can nap for a few hours - "

"Bellamy," Clarke says, and it's almost fond, the way it falls off her tongue. It shuts him up like nothing else does. He doesn't think she knows the effect she has. "I'm fine. We're nearly there, aren't we?"

He glances ahead instinctually, seeking out any change in the terrain that will tell him they're almost there, but every rock and gnarled tree looks the same to him. He's only made this trip twice, once a year. It's not nearly often enough for it to become familiar.

"I think so," he says. "Not sure how long, it could still be another hour or two. That's enough for a short nap."

"You're doing the mother hen thing again," Clarke says. There's a tiny smile playing at the corners of her lips as he sputters indignantly.

"I am _not_ ," he argues. "I'm being a reasonable human being invested in the well-being of the people I care about."

She says nothing at this, just leans over in her saddle, far enough that his hand automatically reaches out to balance her, and their fingers tangle in the space inbetween them. She smiles at him over their joined hands; it is not small this time. Sunlight falls on her face again and her eyes squint in the golden glow. She is almost too bright to look at. It lasts barely a heartbeat, a single moment that Bellamy wants to pour into amber and preserve forever. Then Clarke's horse falls out of step, pulling their hands apart, and her face is cast in shade once more. Sköll deliberately veers under a low-hanging branch and forces Bellamy to duck to avoid getting hit in the face.

From somewhere behind he hears the unmistakable peal of Harper's laughter. Bellamy swears under his breath and decides not to turn around in his saddle or give her the finger. He's an adult. He can be mature about not getting to hold Clarke's hand longer. _Someone_ has to take the high road in this situation, and he knows it won't be Harper. She's been lurking around him for a long time, wiggling her eyebrows every time Clarke leaves him speechless or otherwise compromised. He knows she'll be gossiping to Raven and Monty over dinner tonight, and Monty will tell Miller, and Miller will look at Bellamy and roll his eyes. They have it down to a routine. There's no way Clarke doesn't notice, but neither of them are willing to be the first to bring it up.

Clarke and Bellamy talk about almost everything. But not about each other, not together. ' _Us_ ' is a word they're still waiting to deserve.

 

 

 

........................................................................................................................

 

 

 

They reach the Falls just before dusk. The sun sets late in the summer, usually giving them long warm days. The chill wind that pulls moisture off the waterfalls makes Bellamy shiver, and he looks forward to warming himself by the blazing bonfires that dot the crest of the cliffs. They must be one of the last delegations to arrive.

The rhythmic _thump_ of their horses' hooves against pine needles sends all the crickets scurrying back into the dirt, and Bellamy listens for the distant roar of the Falls and the awed gasps from the others who are making the trip for the first time. He looks, automatically, for Clarke. She is sitting straight in her saddle, reins held loosely, her mouth parted ever so slightly in wonder at the sight of the huge waterfalls that greet them. 

He looks away quickly. 

Grounder guards on horseback ride out from the camp to greet them. Clarke sets her mouth in a hard line and nudges her horse ever so slightly closer to Bellamy and Sköll. He doesn't miss the eyes of the guards lingering on them. Clarke's hand curls tightly around the knob of her saddle, her bone-white knuckles bright against the blues that dusk paints them in. Bellamy thinks about reaching out and holding her hand again as Kane handles the introductions. 

Before he can work up the courage, the Grounder guards part to let them continue down the path. Bellamy doesn't look at them as he rides past. He looks at the bonfires along the cliff, his eyes scanning for the Ark's banner. The delegation will have set aside some tents for their use - he wants to make sure the guard who got food poisoning last night gets some rest, and Clarke along with him, and they should probably check how Raven's dealing with the long car ride - 

"You have your worrying face on again," Clarke says as they near the bonfires. The flames cast a faint orange glow to her cheeks, growing warmer with every step. 

"I was thinking about sleeping arrangements," Bellamy says. "Some of us will have to play tea party with the Grounders for a few hours, but everyone else deserves an early night. Harper seems to have plenty of energy, and Kane will want to look for Indra. Who else?"

"I'll join you as soon as I've checked on Aiden," Clarke says automatically. 

"Not you," Bellamy argues. "You barely slept last night. You've more than earned a long rest."

She gives him a withering look instead of answering, and they break off the discussion for a moment to dismount and pass off their horses to a temporary stablemaster. His legs tremble under his weight after the day's long ride, and he shakes them out for a moment, trying to get blood flow back again.

"Jackson can take care of him. You know he loves feeling useful," Bellamy says. Clarke's shoulders slump with exhaustion. 

"Fine," she mutters. "I'll let Jackson know. But I'm still coming around to say hello to the clans." When he opens his mouth to protest, Clarke presses a finger to his lips, lightning quick. The touch startles him into silence; the world narrows down to her skin against his mouth. "Don't give me that look," Clarke says softly. "We'll hang around for an hour, tops, just enough so the clans see a united front. And then you can drag me to bed."

Nothing in the world can prepare Bellamy for the words _you can drag me to bed_ coming out of Clarke's mouth. He sways unsteadily as she pulls her hand back, and he's searching for words to fill up the space between them when Raven saunters up and raps her cane against his boot. 

"Good evening, lovebirds," she says casually. "Coming for dinner? Kane says we're going to wine and dine."

"Wine, really?" Clarke asks, smoothly taking a step back from Bellamy.

"Probably not," Raven admits. "I just wanted an excuse to say wine and dine."

"Dinner's a good idea," Bellamy says, and he sits down at a bonfire in between Raven and Miller with a skewer of unidentified meat in hand. Clarke slips off to take food to the others before he can stop her, and Bellamy can't stop his eyes from lingering on the gap between tents where she disappeared. 

"You two good?" Raven asks inbetween bites. 

"Fine," Bellamy replies automatically. "We're all just tired."

"I'm always tired when I have to deal with Grounders," Miller mutters under his breath. "They're exhausting." 

Bellamy agrees, privately, but elbows Miller in the ribs nonetheless. Their presence here is supposed to be a gesture of goodwill. They only need to gather at the Falls once a year, review their treaties and trade agreements, participate in some ridiculous team bonding activities, and then the rest of the year they only need to interact whenever they're trading supplies. Bellamy likes it that way. They can survive a weekend of bullshit traditions if it means they'll be left in peace otherwise. 

Clarke returns a moment later, stepping over a log bench to worm her way between him and Raven. Raven gives him a significant look as Clarke leans forwards to warm her hands by the bonfire with an appreciative hum. Bellamy gives her the finger.

Clarke's barely taken a bite of her food when a shadow looms over them, blocking the fire's heat and light. Bellamy follows the hard line of the body in front of them until he finds Roan's face smirking down at them, and immediately stands so he's not looking up at the Ice Nation King. Miller stands a second later because he'd follow Bellamy into hell if he asked, Clarke stands because she's always pretty much always ready to fight Roan, and Raven stands because she wants a good view.

"Wanheda finally graces the Falls with her presence. I trust your journey here went well?" Roan asks, slow and measured. Bellamy stiffens immediately, waiting for Clarke's reaction. He coaxed her into coming along so she could get away from her responsibilities for a while, not have more dark reminders shoved on her.

"Fine, thank you," Clarke says tersely. 

"Sköll was great, as usual," Bellamy adds, unable to resist a reference to the horse they both know he should have returned two years ago. Roan, to his credit, barely reacts besides the smallest twitch in his smirk. 

"It's good to hear you are getting along so well with my... gift," he says. "Let us know if there's anything else the Sky People require. Food, blankets. Nights by the Falls can get chilly." He eyes the infinitesimally small distance between Bellamy and Clarke. "Body heats works too."

Miller coughs loudly in a measly attempt to disguise a laugh. Bellamy cannot believe that so many people have nothing better to do than to crack jokes about what isn't happening between him and Clarke. Still, he can't let Roan have the last word. 

"We'll be warm enough without you, thanks. Is there anything else you wanted to discuss?" he says coolly. Roan's pale gaze focuses on him. 

"Should I even bother asking if your people will participate in the race this year?"

Bellamy opens his mouth to answer _no_ , like they've done for the past two years, when Clarke rocks forward on her toes, apparently interested by the direction this is taking. 

"What race?" she asks. 

"Every delegation is invited to build a raft or a boat of some kind in three days, and we race each other down the river. It's a friendly competition, of course, though you wouldn't know it from the way some of the teams heckle each other. If nothing else, it beats arguing over territory disputes," Roan says. "Of course, the Sky People have declined every time. You know what they say, you can't lose if you never try."

"God, do you ever shut up?" Raven mutters. 

"Bellamy," Clarke says, turning to him with shining eyes. He's a little bit taken aback by the broad smile on her face, the excitement radiating from her, the gears already turning in her mind. "Are you telling me you've made this trip twice already and you've never participated?"

"It's a waste of time," Bellamy mutters. "There's no real benefit to winning, no prize or advantage in the negotiations."

She waves him off with a cheerful _it'll be fun!_ and turns back to Roan. 

"What are the rules?"

"You're serious about this?" Roan says, sounding pleased. Bellamy wants to groan as he realizes this may have been the whole reason he came over to greet them. 

"Bellamy did say I should get the full experience of the trip," Clarke retorts. 

"Well then. The rules are simple," Roan starts, still looking like a cat playing with its food. "You have the three days of the trade negotiations to build your craft. Anything that floats is fair game. Your team has to be at least six people, but no more than ten. You have to finish the race with everyone still onboard - you'll be disqualified if your team members go overboard. No sabotaging the other teams until everyone's in the water. And aside from that, well. All's fair in love and war, right?"

"Hold on," Raven says, jabbing a finger into Roan's broad chest. " _Anything_ that floats? There are no restrictions on boat materials?"

"None," Roan answers. "But I'd be careful about my choices. The rapids can be treacherous."

"Bring it on, old man," Raven says. She throws an arm around Clarke's shoulder and gives them all a dangerous grin. "I'm in if you're in."

"I'm in," Clarke says immediately. "This is exactly the kind of rebellious teenage nonsense that will frustrate my mother when we get back."

Bellamy looks to Miller for support, only to find his best friend shrugging lazily. 

"We've done stupider things," he says. "And I wasn't looking forward to trade negotiations anyway. As long as we can find two more people for our team."

"Kane can definitely spare us," Clarke says. "We brought more than enough people along."

"I'm going to be signed up against my will, aren't I?" Bellamy mutters. The "apologetic" look that Roan gives him in return doesn't convince anyone.

"I'll let the others know you've decided to compete," Roan says smugly. He turns to leave, doesn't even bother to look at them as he tosses a casual _I hope you're ready to start working bright and early tomorrow!_ over his shoulder. 

"That fucker," Raven says, bracing a hand against her hip. Bellamy doesn't think she's really that upset - she's smiling, and she's got that spark in her eye she always gets when put to a challenge as she turns to the rest of them. "He did say there were no restrictions on materials. I'm going to build a motorboat on steroids."

"We can do that?" Miller asks. 

"There's a good chance there's a depot around here somewhere in the Ark's records," Clarke muses with a slow nod. "Yeah, we may be able to find you parts."

"I cannot believe we're doing this," Bellamy mutters. Clarke gives him another one of those smiles that makes him feel like she's glowing from the inside, like she's got stars sewn under her skin, and slips her hand in the crook of his arm. Even though his long-sleeved shirt, he can feel that her hands are ice-cold. He yelps and immediately wraps her hands in his. "Clarke, you're freezing!"

"I'm sure you'll do something about that," Miller murmurs into his other ear, and Bellamy can only huff in frustration as he laughs and goes off with Raven, leaving him and Clarke standing by the bonfire alone. He clears his throat awkwardly and drops her hands, taking a step back. Clarke, to her credit, just tucks them into her armpits and ducks her head.

"I think we've made a solid start on the diplomacy," Clarke announces. "We can probably turn in for the night."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah. You were right, I'm pretty tired."

"I'm always right," Bellamy shoots back. They linger by the fire for a little longer, leeching warmth as the wood crackles and sends sparks flying high above their heads into the night sky, and then they hurry towards their section of the camp. Clarke peels off for a moment to check on Jackson and Aiden as Bellamy takes his time unrolling his sleeping bag and stuffing his socks into his boots to deter spiders or other things from crawling in them during the night. Clarke returns and plops her bedroll right next to him without an ounce of hesitation, like she knows she belongs. 

They don't speak as they lie side by side, listening to the sounds of movement and talking outside the tent. By the flickering light of the single lantern that hangs from the roof of their tent, Bellamy watches her eyes close and her breath even out. He falls asleep sometime afterwards and he has a dream that's been reoccurring for a few months now, a dream in which he is all alone in a field of golden wheat that stretches as far as the eye can see. Every time he has this dream he picks a different direction to walk in and he keeps going until morning, stepping carefully so he doesn't trample any stalks, trailing his palms over the tips that ripple in the wind like waves on an ocean. _Hello_ , they seem to be saying. _Hello hello hello. Welcome home. Where have you been?_ The sun on the back of his neck is warm but not scorching. A hot wind starts up what feels like a few hours into the dream, but only on his throat.

He wakes up to find that someone has blown out the lantern in the tent. It must have been a while ago, because there's no hint of smoke in the air. His side is warm and heavy; he turns his head to look and gets a mouthful of hair. 

"Clarke," he whispers. 

She gives a low, sleepy hum in response, and curls closer to him. He is not sure what to make of warm weight of her body pressed against ribcage. If he listens he can feel her heartbeat on his skin, but maybe it is just wishful thinking, maybe this is where the dream of golden fields leads. After several agonizing moments he learns to breathe again, ragged and grateful the same way he was after Murphy tightened a noose around his neck, after Mount Weather had a go, after Kane. Life on the ground is a non-stop slideshow of moments that make Bellamy's throat ache. This one, however, is a good ache. He gently lets his arm rest around her shoulders, returning her loose embrace, and he doesn't even try to hold back the smile that comes when Clarke makes an appreciative sound and nuzzles her chin more deeply into the crook of his shoulder. 

He goes back to the wheat fields, but this time he can swear Clarke is nearby, hovering just at the edge of his vision, ducking into the tall stalks whenever he turns to look. 

In the morning when he wakes, her bedroll is already neatly folded up a respectable distance away from him. The camp outside the tent thrums with sound and activity. Bellamy doesn't let it bother him. He doesn't. Really. 

 

 

 

..........................................................................................

 

 

 

Kane reacts to the news that they're participating in the boat race for the first time with a cheerfullness that is, frankly, off-putting. It should hardly come as a surprise - both he and Abby have been trying for months to get Bellamy and Clarke to do "fun things for once", first with gentle hints, and more recently with direct orders. Bellamy wants to argue, but Clarke strolls past, humming, as she hands him a tin cup full of warm cocoa, and he's startled into silence. 

"We only really need you two to be present for the preliminary talks," Kane continues, "And after that, I don't see why not. It's about time you had some age-appropriate fun!"

"I'm twenty-five years old," Bellamy reminds him. 

"Age-appropriate," Kane cheerfully repeats, and really, there's no arguing with him when he's in this mood. Bellamy would have tried, once upon a time, and maybe even won, but he tries to put his energy into more productive things nowadays. 

And so it's with a resigned sigh that he slides into a seat next to Clarke in the biggest tent in the camp just seconds before a Grounder blows a horn calling for silence. Clarke acknowledges him by bumping her shoulder against his and scooting closer as the tent falls silent and latecomers cram into the edges of the tent where the ceiling is too sloped for them to stand straight. 

It takes only a few minutes for Clarke to slip the first note into his palm. He gauges her expression out of the corner of his eye, not turning his head, but she is staring intently at the representative currently speaking. If he didn't know better, he'd think her completely engrossed. 

He peeks down at the tiny scrap of paper in his hand. 

_Are Luna's people competing too? Wouldn't that be unfair because their whole shtick is boats? Are they allowed to compete but given time penalties for their obvious advantage?_

It takes another few moments for him to find an opportunity to reply.

_What's this? Clarke Griffin is reconsidering the boat race? I'd cheer, but we both know Roan will be a smug asshole about it._

Her answer is nearly immediate. 

_NO_ , with three lines scratched under it in very earnest graphite. _Roan's going down. We're going to own this boat race. Raven's poking through a depot as we speak. There's no way we can lose with her on our side._

Bellamy can't help but smile at her handwriting. There's not enough room left on the paper for him to answer, and he's not about to leave a scrap with the words ' _Roan's going down'_ on it lying around in case someone wants to provoke another war, so he carefully tears it into pieces and puts them into his mouth.

Clarke gives an ugly snort of laughter and nearly hits her forehead on the desk in front of her. The Grounder currently speaking stops mid-sentence and frowns. 

"Something wrong, Clarke?" Kane asks from a few seats down. Bellamy swallows the paper in his mouth and reaches out to rub soothing circles between Clarke's shoulderblades as she hunches over her desk, hiding her face. 

"She has the hiccups," Bellamy deadpans. Kane doesn't look like he really believes them, but attention slowly slides back to the negotiations and Clarke sits up, the picture of calm except for the pink blotches on her cheeks. Bellamy's hand slips and rests on the back of her chair. She doesn't seem bothered by it, so he leaves it there and pretends it doesn't mean a thing. 

"Hiccups, really?" she whispers to him several minutes later. 

"Just having some age-appropriate fun," he mutters. 

 

 

 

..........................................................................................

 

 

 

Raven's taught Bellamy the basics of rover maintenance over the years - how to check the oil, change the tires, etcetera - in between bouts of personal mocking, but he's still nowhere near what the kid's call _technologically competent._

He doesn't understand most of the conversation that Raven and Monty have back and forth over what's apparently an old rusty motorboat they're hoping to fire up again. Eventually Raven loses her patience with his impatient pacing and tells him that if he wants to walk so much, he can go walk along the river they'll be racing down and tell her if there's any obstacles or shallow waters.

Clarke announces that she'll come with him, like it's the most obvious thing in the world. Bellamy looks at her, swallows hard, and nods. What else can he do?

The first part of the walk they are mostly quiet, focused on finding paths through the underbrush. It's the height of summer and the vegetation near the river grows thick and green, often forcing them to make detours into the forest until they can find a way back to the riverbank. As far as Bellamy can see, Raven's sent them on a wild goose chase. The river twists through the landscape like a snake that's just had a huge meal, slow and heavy and stretched wide. There'll be no shallow waters for them to ground their boat on here.

Clarke seems completely unbothered by Raven's obvious meddling, still steadfastly trekking through bushes and clambering onto rocks to survey the view. 

They break for lunch on a rocky outcropping that juts out over the slow rumble of water beneath them. Bellamy shrugs off his rifle and sets it next to them as Clarke unwraps sandwiches and makes sure he still has water in his canteen. There are clouds in the sky today, not gray ones, but large enough that the sun doesn't feel like an itch on their skin. They come and go as they please, alternately casting their picnic into shade or a sunlight so soft that it makes Bellamy want to close his eyes and rest there for a while. 

"What do you think would have happened if the hundred had made it to the ocean before the Grounder army got to us?" Clarke asks, licking the last crumbs off her sandwich off her fingers. Bellamy squints, feeling sleepy. He takes off his sweater and balls it up like a pillow, stretching out as comfortably as one can on rock. It seems like Clarke's in the mood for conversation, so he may as well get comfortable.

"I guess Luna would have taken us in," he says. "Or, I hope she would have. We would have given up anything for a chance at peace then."

"If she didn't, though," Clarke says, "We could have followed the coast South. Found a place that belonged to no one. Built cabins on the beach for everyone."

"Not on the beach," Bellamy says quickly. "Not if it's anything like the sand around the lake. No structural integrity there."

"You've been spending too much time with Raven," she teases, tilting her head back to the sun. "Okay, fine. We'd build our cabins under the trees, just before the beach. But our front lawns would have sandcastles, and little crabs."

"And coconuts."

"Coconuts?"

"Why not?" Bellamy answers sleepily. He closes his eyes, telling himself it's just for a moment. "It's a dream, isn't it? Anything can happen." 

"You look like you're already halfway in one," Clarke says. He gives a non-committal grunt, but doesn't open his eyes, not even when he hears her move closer and lift the sweater he's using as a pillow into her lap. "It's okay, I'll take watch for a while. You can nap."

He feels her fingers run through his hair, once, hesitantly, and then again as she builds courage. If he could purr, he would be already. 

"We could still go to the ocean," Bellamy murmurs, and her fingers pause for just a moment. "Someday."

"Go to sleep, Bellamy," she whispers instead, and he does. When he wakes up again, the sun is a fraction lower in the sky and she's moved a few steps away, sketching the view of the river into a notebook. He doesn't move at first, just takes in the dichotomy of his rifle slung on her back with the serene look on her face as she focuses on her notebook. He makes a show of sitting up and stretching out the aches in his shoulder. 

"Hey," he says, on the way back to camp, "Clarke. We're going to win this boat race."

"Damn right we are."

 

 

 

..........................................................................................

 

 

 

Bellamy sleeps in fits, unable to rest, forcing his eyes open when he hears low conversation nearby. His vision remains blurry through the thin cracks between his eyelids, but he can make out what looks like the roof of his tent, the glow of the single lantern swinging above his head. There are multiple voices, some of them frantic and insistent even as others try to shush them, which means he should find out what's going on, but his body feels tired and heavy, slow to respond, and he slips back into darkness. 

When he finally wakes up and _stays_ awake, it's gone quiet. Bellamy's throat is parched and aching. Coughing is an effort that rattles the bones of his ribcage; each one feels like it reverberates apart from the others. He doesn't remember getting hit by a rover, but that's what it feels like. 

He hears a quiet exclamation from the side, and slowly turns his head in time to see Jackson bend over and pick up a bottle of pills. He flicks dirt off of the lid, frowning, and sets it back on the rickety table in front of him. 

"Jackson?" Bellamy tries to say, except it comes out rather more throaty. Immediately the doctor's head jerks up; when their gazes meet, Jackson's mouth bursts into a relieved smile. 

"You're awake!" he says, a little unnecessarily. He quickly grabs a nearby canteen and pours a tin cup for Bellamy. "You must be dehydrated by now. If you're not too sick of water, I want you to have this."

"Sick of water?" Bellamy croaks as Jackson carefully helps him sit up and drink in small, slow sips. It helps soothe the ache in his throat, but the rest of him still feels battered. Just the effort of sitting up as cost Bellamy, and he already wants to lie down and go back to sleep. He forces himself to keep sitting, wondering how he's going to manage Clarke's boat race and the rest of the Clan gathering while sore and exhausted. "What happened?"

Jackson shakes his head and doesn't seem interested in talking until they're done a brief physical: checking Bellamy's response to light, probing gently at his ribs until he hisses in pain, and checking a spot just above his ear that's painful to the touch. During the physical Bellamy realizes that the bundle of furs in a nearby dark corner is Clarke's body, wrapped in blankets. The familiar cold touch of fear creeps down his spine before he sees the gentle rise of her chest and forces himself to shake it off. 

"What's the last thing you remember?" Jackson asks. 

"Raven sent me out on a scouting trip along the river," Bellamy starts, casting his mind backwards. "Clarke came with me. We stopped for lunch near the finish line, hiked back home, sat through some more negotiations until the Plains Riders finally accepted that we weren't going to give them our lake, had dinner. Went to sleep here. Woke up feeling like I got run over. Did a Grounder hotwire our rover and drive it through our tent?"

"Not quite," Jackson says, wincing. "It looks like you're missing a day of your memory. I wouldn't panic just yet - you took a nasty hit to the head, and short term memory loss happens sometime. You might get it back, you might not. Honestly, I doubt Clarke will let you out of her sight for a while, and she knows what signs to look for."

"Is she all right?" Bellamy asks, glancing back to the sleeping pile of furs. 

"Just tired. No one could make her leave you," Jackson says, sitting down cross-legged next to Bellamy. "We compromised on a nap. I said I'd wake her up if you did, but honestly, it's only been an hour or two, and I think she needs more."

"Let her sleep," Bellamy says quickly. "I have enough trouble making sure she rests."

"Glad we're on the same page."

"So what happened to my head?" Bellamy presses. "What happened today? ...Yesterday?"

"It's day five of the gathering now. The boat race was yesterday, you've been asleep since that afternoon," Jackson begins. "From what I hear, Raven's motorboat did quite well at the start of the race... up until another boat up ahead broke apart on the rapids and its crew fell into the water. Naturally, you and Clarke leaped in to save them."

"You said she was all right!" Bellamy says, immediately looking back at Clarke's prone body as though it will now reveal injuries to him. 

"Your boat picked her and one of the Grounders who fell overboard," Jackson says. "She wasn't in the water for long. You, however, helped one of them grab onto a log, and then immediately swam for the third. We think your head injury happened when another one of the boats in the race pulled you into their wake. They're saying they didn't see you, but our delegation has doubts. Some of the other competitors say they changed their course at the last minute to hit you."

Bellamy grits his teeth. It's been nearly three years since they landed on Earth, and they're still clawing their way to something like peace. Sometimes it seems like they'll never get closer to it. Sometimes Bellamy wants to take all their people and leave it all behind. He wouldn't, though. Clarke wouldn't. And he'd never leave her. 

"Please tell me no one's starting a battle over that," he says to Jackson, his voice exhausted. 

"Not yet," Jackson says. "If you're feeling all right, I'm going to go let the others know how you're doing."

Bellamy raises his hand in a distracted acknowledgement as Jackson leaves the tent, then winces as it pulls at the bruised muscles on his chest. He sits in silence for a few minutes, hands limp in his lap, frustrated with the numb blankness in his mind where yesterday should be. It's unsettling to hear accounts of his actions without remembering anything he did. 

His gaze drifts, eventually, to Clarke. Jackson promised she wasn't greatly injured, but he needs to check. He needs to. She would do it for him. 

His head pounds when he tries to stand, so he crawls instead, slowly. Painstakingly. She startles when he lays a hand on her hair, sits up so violently she narrowly avoids smashing their foreheads together. 

"Clarke," he says roughly. "It's me, Clarke, it's just me."

He thumbs her cheek gently, watching her eyes sharpen as they meet his, watching the fight leave her body as she all but melts into the hand cupping her jaw. 

"You're awake," Clarke says, already slipping into the clipped, professional voice she uses in the medbay. "How is-"

"Jackson already gave me a physical," Bellamy interrupts. "I really don't want to go through it again. How are you?"

Clarke wrinkles her nose and sits up more comfortably, crossing her ankles so their legs touch. 

"Fine. Just tired. Listen, I'm so sorry about yesterday, I wasn't thinking, and I know that isn't really an excuse but you weren't moving when they pulled you out of the river and I thought -" Clarke's voice abruptly breaks off with a choked sob. 

"It's okay," Bellamy says. "Whatever it was, it's okay. I'm here, I'm breathing. A bit knocked up, but you know, we've had worse."

"...What?" Clarke says. "I..."

"I don't remember yesterday," Bellamy admits grudgingly, knowing the admission will make her worry more. Clarke's mouth opens and closes several times, the creases in her forehead growing progressively deeper. Finally she hides her face in both hands, groaning loudly. "...Clarke?"

" _Fuck me_ ," Clarke says through gritted teeth. Bellamy's brain takes a few seconds to reboot, and in that time Clarke seems to realize what she's just said and flushes darkly. "Oh, not that. I mean, you don't have to. Fuck, fuck, fuck. You really don't remember?"

"Jackson said I pulled some Grounders out of the river and then got hit by a boat?" Bellamy suggests helpfully.

"After that," Clarke says. "You don't remember?"

For a moment they are both silent, staring at each other over a distance that seems at once insurmountable and far too intimate and vulnerable. Clarke looks pained, like a hurt animal backed into a corner. Her hand is a scarce few centimeters away from Bellamy's - he'd reach out and take it if he thought it would help. Instead he curls his fingers into fists and doesn't allow himself to be greedy. He can barely breathe, and it has nothing to do with his battered ribcage.

"Clarke," he says, low and careful. "Clarke, what happened? What did I do?"

"You smiled at me," Clarke whispers, blue eyes wide and fixed upon his. "I did CPR on you, and you woke up. Just for a minute. You woke up and you smiled at me like you hadn't just almost died in my arms." Her voice goes very small. "And then I kissed you. In front of everyone."

Bellamy exhales, and as he does he feels something inside of him relax, some corner of him that had been tensed up for a fight for so long he didn't even remember a time when he'd been ready to lay down his weapons. 

"You could do it again," he suggests. He swallows hard, his throat parched once again. "Jackson says I might get yesterday's memories back, but I might not. So you could kiss me again, just in case."

"For science?" Clarke asks, an unreadable look on her face. 

"No," Bellamy says. "For - just for us."

She closes the distance between them, hesitantly at first, like she thinks he might still vanish, and then desperately, both of them suddenly starving. She crawls up into his lap, makes an approving sound against his mouth as his hands instinctively find her hips and pull her closer. He hisses in pain as she cards her fingers through his hair and her nails brush the wound by his ear. She pulls back to apologize and he pulls her back, whispering _it's okay, it's okay, this is good_ against her lips.

They lose their frantic momentum, eventually, and lean against each other in silence. Her breath is warm against Bellamy's neck. He never wants her to move. 

"So, are we still competing in the race next year?" he asks eventually, startling a laugh out of her. 

"We'll see when we get there," Clarke whispers. She presses a gentle kiss to his temple. "I'm really glad you dragged me on this trip."

"Me too," Bellamy says, and closes his eyes. It's the best one he's made so far.

 

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> So um, I have a friend whose hometown apparently hosts an annual 'race your sketchy homemade boat down our river' event. And they've never competed in it, even though it's like _right there_. This fic was born from that anger, until I realized I don't actually know how to write about river boat races. Bellamysfern mentioned wanting to see more Jackson in fics, so that worked out! Hope you enjoyed. 
> 
> Title from this quote: "To write by shreds, by storm clouds, by visions, by violent chapters, in the present as in the archpast, in pre-vision, in the true chaos of verbal tenses, crossing over years and oceans at a god’s pace, with the past on my right and the future on my left—this is forbidden in academies, it is permitted in apocalypses. What joy it is." - Hélène Cixous


End file.
